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Nice To Meat You (Not) by Gill Hoffs

This rant has been building inside me for the last twenty-odd years. Perhaps venting on here will free me of this entirely rational and justifiable anger and allow me to be the bunny-cuddling happy smiley fluffball people who don’t know me clearly expect a vegetarian to be (well, except for the dickheads Number 10 refers to). Perhaps … no, I doubt it.

Ten things that sometimes make me want to eat meat – human meat.

1. Finding out I’m vegetarian then insisting on telling me why you’re not e.g. “I just couldn’t give up meat, I couldn’t.” Or “It’s just not natural, is it?” (especially fun when the person saying it is tucking into something containing more E-numbers and un-gredients than fucking astronaut rations). I’m not your conjoined twin nor your confessor. If you’re not, you’re not – as for your reasons, I just don’t fucking care.

2. Finding out I’m vegetarian then insisting on telling me how much you love animals as you chow down on oh, I dunno, a bit of one.

3. Finding out I’m vegetarian then insisting on quizzing me on why? How long for? Is it the ethics-thing then? Is it your whole family (because obviously then it wouldn’t be my fault as despite being 34 I clearly can’t make up my own mind about what I stick in my gob, eh?)?

4. Finding out I’m vegetarian and insisting that means I eat fish, chicken, turkey, and pork and serving me it in a restaurant because “my sister/cousin/friend/neighbour/colleague does and they’re vegetarian” – no, they fucking well aren’t.

5. Finding out I’m vegetarian and waving a forkful of rare steak under my nose in an attempt to gross me out because you’re “only having a laugh”. Your twattishness grosses me out far more than your dinner.

6. Finding out I’m vegetarian and assuming I’m a pale malnourished weakling who isn’t able to kick your arse – hey, I’ve watched Buffy and Angel AND Dollhouse. I know some moves and I’m frankly gagging to try them.

7. Finding out I’m vegetarian and attempting to corral me into your cloud of stupidity by asking me if I were trapped on an island/in a lift/on a ship with only a chicken or my child to choose between to keep me alive, which would I eat? Well, duh … but if it were between an obnoxious arsehole like you and a cow, guess what? I’m eating longpig tonight, fuckface.

8. Finding out I’m vegetarian and assuming, wrongly, that my child isn’t, then when you find out he is, asking me with a hesitant tone and concerned look on your face if I don’t think that’s “a bit cruel to him”? Eh, no. Fuck. Right. The. Fuck. Off.

9. Finding out I’m vegetarian then gloating over the fact that I’ve probably unwittingly eaten meat at some point or other. Yes, fuck face. I also try not to eat shit and maggots, and I presume you do the same (though if you are what you eat, you’ve not tried hard enough). You might want to read up on the thresholds for acceptable levels of faeces and insects in the food industry’s literature. Keep a bucket handy when you do.

10. Finding out I’m vegetarian then smugly comparing me to Hitler. Well, so was Ghandi. They both had moustaches. Big fucking deal. Hitler also liked soup and potatoes and I somehow doubt you’re boycotting them just in case you become an evil bastard because of your DIET.

Photo courtesy of Anna – “Cambridge Cat.”

Gill Hoffs lives with her family and Coraline Cat in a horribly messy house in Warrington. Find her on facebook or as @gillhoffs on twitter, email her a dirty joke at gillhoffs@hotmail.co.uk, or leave a clean comment at http://gillhoffs.wordpress.com/ ‘Wild: a collection’, her word-mixture of sea creatures, regret, and murder, is out now from Pure Slush. Get it here. Gill’s often-sad sometimes-grisly nonfiction book about the Victorian Titanic will be published in January 2014 by Pen & Sword. Feel free to send her chocolate.

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